


Night and Day

by the_haven_of_fiction



Category: Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Old Hollywood - Freeform, Romance, old songs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-27 01:00:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15674844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_haven_of_fiction/pseuds/the_haven_of_fiction
Summary: Drabble, Old Hollywood style Tom, based on the Cole Porter song.





	Night and Day

He could, without fail and with a supplement from the boys in the band that bolstered his salary, tell how long they were going to stay by the color of their dress.

No matter how many assurances they gave to the club manager, no matter how many contracts they signed, he could always tell.

The Reds made it a week, tops. So intensely hungry for the spotlight, those Reds. Music was simply the vehicle that got them on stage, they were looking for a life on the Big Screen. Within a mere day or two they would spot their prey in the audience, usually found rather easily because there was a bored woman sitting next to them. And she was never wearing red. 

The Golds took a little longer, a few weeks. Never more than a month. They had a bit more criteria than the reds and it had to do with how many zeroes were at the end of the target’s bank account. 

The Little Black Dresses varied, sometimes lasting up to six months. They did seem to have a love for the music. They were concerned with more than the zeroes themselves. Status was also a consideration. Nouveau riche, that wasn’t enough, buster. They wanted class, they wanted a name that was next to John Hancock’s, one that could assure their son of admittance to Harvard even if he knew less about Calculus than the family dog. But they were without fail the ones who treated him the best and would often remember to book him for their parties through the year.

Then one night, She walked in clad in blue. They never wore blue. And he was baffled.

Then one night, She made the clichés real. She made the lyrics real. She made sense of all those notes he had played over and over, every night for the Reds, the Golds, and the Little Black Dresses whose names he didn’t try to remember.

So he took to calling her that, Blue, even though he had made a rule for himself that he would not become involved with the person behind the mic. Nicknames were a risk, a lesson that he had learned the hardest way.

But.

But Blue.

Blue was different.

Blue was the real thing.

She made him feel like Cole Porter himself on the bench.

From the first night, he could follow her as if it was the thousandth night.

From the first night, he could follow her as if it was the last night.

And from the first night, she had called him a friend.

“Ladies and scoundrels,” in that tinkling velvet voice that could swoop between octaves so beautifully, “please set those drinks down and give my old friend Tom a hand. You may think I am giving those talented fingers of his a rest for a few moments, but actually, I am simply trying to appear humble.”

Always punctuated with a wink.

And the audience laughed. They always laughed.

Her old friend.

Maybe that was what made him hesitant.

Not being her friend was too great a chance.

But maybe it was because he heard something in that lovely voice that made him enjoy the Not Knowing more than the Knowing. She could sing a sad song happy and a happy song sad until he was no longer sure which was which. 

He saw it on their faces as well when he took a few quick glances out over the audience. He saw smiles that were sad and tears that were happy. Perhaps that was why the name fit her. She turned everything on its head and yet life had never felt more in order.

His favorite part of the act was when she sat on the piano and pressed her shoe against his thigh. 

Night and day, under the hide of me  
There’s an oh, such a hungry yearnin’ burnin’ inside of me  
And its torment won’t be through  
Till you let me spend my life makin’ love to you  
Day and night, night and day

Was he a fool to think that it was more than an act? 

Was he the only one who noticed that the song suddenly sounded like a confession?

Was he the only one who felt the atmosphere change, who couldn’t decide if it was night or day?

And then one night, She asked him.

“Well, Tom, shall we call it a day?”

He was still, unsure.

Her eyes were lit, like day.

“I’d rather call it a night,” he risked, offering her his hand.

She stayed.

And she wasn’t Blue anymore.


End file.
